


i can be (your guiding light)

by Phoenix_of_Athena



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexuality Spectrum, Aziraphale Is Soft, Banter, Consent, Cunnilingus, Declarations Of Love, Drinking & Talking, F/M, Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), First Time, Fluff and Smut, Friendship, Gentle Kissing, Neck Kissing, Other, Post-Canon, Romance, Tender Sex, Trust and Comfort, Vaginal Fingering, Walks In The Park, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), crowley is soft, gender fluid crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21698704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_of_Athena/pseuds/Phoenix_of_Athena
Summary: “Something the matter?” said Crowley, and Aziraphale shook his head.“No, no,” he murmured, “it’s just getting a tad bit warm in here.”He unbuttoned his cardigan and pulled it off, folding and draping it over the arm of the sofa.The cling of fabric had rumpled the collar of Aziraphale’s shirt, and as he settled back down again, Crowley leaned forward to straighten it.The stiff cotton was warm where it had rested against the angel’s neck, and she smoothed it gently with a soft flickering of fingers.“There,” she breathed, and felt Aziraphale swallow, a shallow bob of his throat beneath her fingers.Abruptly, she realized how far she had leaned into the angel’s space, and her gaze shot up to meet his.  His eyes were washed in gray and sparkling ochre by the firelight, and that thoroughly familiar face of his was scarce inches from her own.  Her hands dropped.  Aziraphale caught them.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 148





	i can be (your guiding light)

The demon named Crowley liked variety. He liked to change things up; to keep it fresh in the long and sometimes tedious existence of his life. Over the centuries, he’d frequently changed his hair, and clothes, and the interior décor of wherever he happened to be living. He’d even changed his name and occasionally, his gender. Which was why _he _was currently a _she._

If you asked Crowley, most people were too uptight about the whole gender thing anyways. When you’d been around since the Beginning, you got the chance to see quite a lot—and it was a rare occurrence, in Crowley’s opinion, that anything was really as black and white as it was painted. Nothing was ever entirely one thing or the other, so why would gender be any different?

Presently, Crowley was walking in St. James’ Park with the angel Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale, unlike Crowley, preferred to keep a comfortable routine and had hardly changed his habits since the eighteenth century. He wore the same styles (if slightly updated), used the same vocabulary (to the consternation of those around him), and he chose to visit the same places—thus the walk in their usual park.

They were walking side by side and at the moment, they were bickering. It wasn’t anything serious, more along the lines of good-natured nattering than anything else, and Crowley was enjoying it.

“Look,” Crowley said, gesturing broadly, “all I’m saying is that it could use a little updating, is all. People have been using pretty much the exact same map for centuries, and you _know_ it hasn’t got accurate proportions.”

“Well, _yes_,” Aziraphale countered somewhat weakly, “that’s true. But think of the history that went into making it. It’d be a shame to cast it entirely aside.”

“Pssh!” 

Crowley grinned as she wove her way along the path, pulling ahead of Aziraphale. She spun so that she was walking backwards, facing him, and gauged when she was going to bump into someone by waiting for the angel’s alarmed expressions.

“What’s that got to do with anything, if it’s _wrong?” _she said, “The point of a world map isn’t for the _history_ of it—if they wanted that, they could have a look at one from twenty years ago with all the wrong land borders, or, or open a bloody book—a map’s for navigating, and actually knowing what things look like. And the _traditional _one has it _wrong._”

“Crowley—!” Aziraphale’s eyes went wide, and Crowley dodged to the side, avoiding another pedestrian without looking.

Aziraphale apologized hastily for her.

“You’ve got to admit I’m right, angel,” Crowley said.

“I haven’t_ got_ _to_ do anything of the sort,” said Aziraphale, “Although…perhaps in this case I will be _willing_ to. It _has _been disappointing seeing them get it wrong for all this time.”**[1]**

Crowley chuckled and turned back around, falling into step beside him.

“So,” she said, “Dinner? Your pick.”

“Twist my arm,” huffed the angel. He paused to consider his options, and Crowley watched the journey his face made, his pursed lips evening out and the corners of his eyes relaxing.

“How would you feel,” he said, “about that marvelous little French place around the corner from the bookshop? You liked their bisque, didn’t you?”

“Mmm, yeah. Sounds good.”

Aziraphale gave her a smile, and Crowley bumped her arm against his.

“D’you want to head there now?” she said, beginning to meander back towards the Bentley, “I’m sure they have a table for us.”

“Mm,” said the angel, and pulled out his watch to check the time, “Lets. It’s coming up on six, and it gets dark early this time of year.”

The restaurant was as small and high-scale as Crowley remembered, and the wait staff recognized Aziraphale on sight. Crowley crossed her arms.

“Been back here without me, angel?” she said, “I’m hurt.”

“Oh, stuff it,” said Aziraphale as they were directed to a table by the window, “You are not.”

Crowley snickered.

“All right, you’ve got me. Glad you liked it enough to come back, though. It’s convenient, being right here.”

“It really is,” Aziraphale said, and he smiled at Crowley as he folded his hands over his menu.

“Already know what you want, then?”

“I’m fond of the coq au vin, and I’m not in the mood to vary tonight.”

Crowley rolled her eyes**[2]** and ordered something at random; it was a nice place, it would all be good.

As they waited, they sipped on wine and nibbled flatbread crackers. The table was bathed with warm yellow lamplight, and outside the window they watched the world go soft and gray. 

The meal arrived, and was as good as they’d expected. Aziraphale dug in with relish, and Crowley worked more slowly through her own. The conversation meandered pleasantly over the course of dinner, and they found themselves talking about Hammurabi, and life in Athens, and that cramped little restaurant they’d both quite liked in Ur. 

Soon enough, the food was eaten and the wine was drunk, and Crowley and Aziraphale stepped back out into the darkened street. Aziraphale shivered and tucked his hands under his arms. Crowley sighed.

“Shouldn’t have forgotten your scarf, angel,” she said, eyeing him sidelong. Reaching up, she unwound the silk scarf from her neck and handed it to him as she popped up the collar of her coat. Aziraphale smiled.

“Thank you, dear.”

His cheeks were slightly flushed by the cold and his breath misted faintly between them. 

“’S no big deal,” Crowley muttered, tucking her gloved hands into her pockets, “Come on.” And she started down the sidewalk towards the bookshop. Aziraphale kept pace beside her.

“Nonetheless,” he said, “I appreciate it.” He paused for a breath. 

“Would you stay this evening? I have some nice Merlot.”

Crowley had been wondering when he’d ask.**[3]**

“Sure,” she agreed easily. 

They rounded the corner and paused briefly beneath a street light as a car trailed past. Then, glancing quickly about, they crossed over to the shop. On the doorstep, Aziraphale fumbled in his pocket for his keys for a moment before opening the door with a flourish.

“After you.”

They entered. 

The familiar warmth and paper-smell of the bookshop was a welcome greeting after the autumn chill. It made Crowley hum in contentment as she pulled off her gloves to tuck them into a pocket, and Aziraphale stepped in after her, shutting the front door firmly. 

“Good to be home,” he said, and Crowley made a soft sound of assent. They’d only left the shop a few hours prior, but it _was_ good to be back.

Soon enough, the coats and scarf had been hung on the rack, leaving the angel in his soft blue cardigan, and the demon in her blouse, and Crowley and Aziraphale retired to the back room. 

Aziraphale spent a few moments bustling about before returning with a slightly dusty bottle and two glasses, and they settled on one of the angel’s sofas. They drank and discussed idle things, and the bottle of wine stayed propped between them during the rare moment it wasn’t in one of their hands. 

Nearby, a small fire crackled in the grate. The world seemed small and cozy now, cast in yellows and oranges with the smell of dust and old paper. Crowley had tucked her feet up onto the cushion, and Aziraphale sat comfortably beside her, rolling his wineglass between his plump fingers. He seemed remarkably content, she thought, watching him. Relaxing into the sofa and cradling her glass in her hands, she felt her lips quirk up.

“What are you thinking about?” Aziraphale asked. It broke the warm silence in the air, and Crowley startled.

“Huh?”

“You were smirking,” said the angel. “I just wondered why.”

Crowley scratched the bridge of her nose beneath her sunglasses, before giving up and snatching them off. She looked at Aziraphale fondly.

“’Was just watching you,” she admitted. “You seem happy.”

“Do I?” said Aziraphale, his lips curling upwards, “Well, I suppose that that’s because I am. Happy, that is.” 

With his free hand, he reached out and patted Crowley’s knee.

“Oh,” said Crowley, “Great. That’s good. I’m glad, I mean.”

“I hope you’re happy too,” said the angel. 

“’Course I am,” she scoffed, and then, “I’m _here,_ aren’t I?”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale.

“Yeah.”

There was another silence, before the angel sighed and set his glass down.

“Something the matter?” said Crowley, and Aziraphale shook his head.

“No, no,” he murmured, “it’s just getting a tad bit warm in here.” 

He unbuttoned his cardigan and pulled it off, folding and draping it over the arm of the sofa. 

The cling of fabric had rumpled the collar of Aziraphale’s shirt, and as he settled back down again, Crowley leaned forward to straighten it. 

The stiff cotton was warm where it had rested against the angel’s neck, and she smoothed it gently with a soft flickering of fingers. 

“There,” she breathed, and felt Aziraphale swallow, a shallow bob of his throat beneath her fingers. 

Abruptly, she realized how far she had leaned into the angel’s space, and her gaze shot up to meet his. His eyes were washed in gray and sparkling ochre by the firelight, and that thoroughly familiar face of his was scarce inches from her own. Her hands dropped. Aziraphale caught them. 

For a moment, they only breathed, faces close, before Aziraphale raised one soft, manicured hand to cup her jaw. When he leaned forward, it was slow, but when Crowley met him it was anything but. 

Their lips met in a harsh clash of teeth that had them both jolting back, but Crowley didn’t waste a moment before pressing forward again. She caught his mouth fiercely with her own, and relished his gasp against her lips. 

His mouth was warm and soft, as comfortable and plush as the rest of his corporation, and kissing him was everything she’d imagined. It was _better_, because this was _Aziraphale_, and this was _real_, and his palm was warm on her cheek and his other was pressed to hers; she ran a hand along his chest, gripping the collar she’d only just fixed.

Then Aziraphale gave a strangled gasp and pulled away.

“_Crowley_,” he breathed, and she felt his hand trembling in hers as the other slipped from her face.

“Fuck,” said Crowley, blinking rapidly and watching the angel’s face fall.

“Crowley, I—You—Dear, is this what you want?” he said, “because, just because I kissed you….”

Crowley froze.

“Angel,” she whispered, “are you kidding me? Setting aside the fact you think I’d just let _anybody_ kiss me who I didn’t want to—_yes._ I want everything you’re willing to give me. Thought you knew that.” 

She held her breath and felt her heart hammer away in the chest of her corporation.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, and he took both her hands in his.

“Good,” he said, and then he was kissing her again: not the fire and force of before, but gentle and meticulous in a way that made her toes curl. His tongue slid into her mouth without resistance, and Crowley met it, clutching desperately to his hands. Her eyes slid half-way lidded, and she watched his own fall shut in a fluttering of lashes above heated cheeks

Every deliberate brush of tongue and lips and teeth sent shivers curling down her spine, and she pressed against Aziraphale as near as she could go, slinging one knee over his and pushing forwards until their tangled hands were crushed between their chests. 

Aziraphale was panting, and her stomach felt like it was swooping.

She’d kissed people before, of course—had done a whole lot _more—_but somehow it had never been like this—this, _intense_, or even this _easy._

She _trusted_ Aziraphale, more than she had ever trusted anyone, really. She _wanted _this. She wanted _him,_ _all_ of him—any of him.

Aziraphale did something wonderful with his tongue again, and she moaned into his mouth. His hands slid down from hers to grip her waist. His grip was firm, now, almost hard, and she tangled her fingers in his hair.

They broke apart for a moment to breathe, and his eyes met hers, bright and pale and wide against flushed cheeks. She grinned, and watched him smile. His hands stroked lightly up her back. She decided to take a leap—he’d catch her even if it was a misstep.

“I know you’ve got a bed somewhere,” she said giddily, the words bubbling up from her chest, “for lazy morning reading, you self indulger—shall we?” 

Her voice came somewhat breathless, and Aziraphale’s mouth fell open.

“Yes_,_” he said, voice shaking, “It’s—it’s just upstairs—do you—?”

“Why wait?” asked Crowley, “If you want to. It’s _you._ It’s _me._ We’ve waited long enough.”

“Oh. Oh, _yes_. Quite,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley leaned backwards, sliding off his lap. She took his hands and tugged him to his feet, walking backwards towards the stairs until Aziraphale made a short, aborted movement—and she knocked into the banister. He laughed as she muttered curses behind a grin, dropping one of his hands to turn and walk properly, leading them upstairs. She couldn’t help but laugh with him, tipping her head over her shoulder to watch the way his eyes crinkled.

This was really happening. She was really dragging a laughing Aziraphale upstairs to bed, and she bit a lip and forced herself to hold back from actually skipping. 

They reached the bedroom door, and she pushed it open. A snap of her fingers had the lights on, and she took in the bedroom Aziraphale had made for himself: from the bedside tables stacked with books that nearly crowded off the lamps, to the bright checked bedspread and the tartan robe draped over a chair, it was all incredibly _him_. 

She looked back again. 

He had rested one hand on the doorframe. A thousand tiny expressions were flickering over his face, and there was something about him that seemed overawed. Crowley took a step back onto the knit rug beneath the bed, and watched him hesitate, his eyes roving over her. 

“C’mon, angel,” she said, and with a gesture of a hand, she vanished her shirt and trousers, leaving her in her undergarments. Aziraphale’s eyes went wide. He flushed all the way down his neck, and she laughed—but only for a moment, because in the next, he had caught her lips with his again. 

Tumbling backwards, Crowley pulled Aziraphale with her onto the bed. His hands were trembling on her shoulders, and Crowley chased his mouth with hers as he pulled back, propping himself on his hands above her. His face was serious.

“Is this all right?” the angel asked again. “Are you sure, Crowley?”

“_Yes,”_ Crowley growled, reaching up to hook her arms around his neck, “Yes, angel—_Aziraphale. _ Yes.”

He whet his lips and she watched his eyes trail over her, his face flushed pink.

“Then, my dear, may I touch you?” 

His voice trembled.

“Please,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale’s hands cupped her face. 

He traced her cheekbones with his thumbs, and the hard line of her jaw. He brushed gentle fingertips across her lips before his hands slid down, exploring the shape of her body. Crowley arched into him, trailing her fingers along his nape, and he leaned forward to pepper kisses down the line of her throat. His hands found her hips and he hummed lowly before following them down her body until his chin rested on her thigh. He looked up at her, his blond curls painted golden in the lamplight.

“Like what you see?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale smiled gently.

“Always,” he said, his fingers ghosting lightly over her thighs. “You are always beautiful, my dear, no matter what form you choose to take.”

Crowley flushed.

“Bless it, angel,” she groaned, fisting her fingers in the sheets, “you’re such a sap.”

“I may be,” Aziraphale said, “but it’s only the truth, and you deserve all the complements in the world. You’re the best person I know. You’re _everything,_ Crowley.”

There was something aching in his voice, and Crowley made a strangled sort of sound and threw one arm across her face.

“Stoooop,” she moaned. Aziraphale’s trailing fingers stilled.

“If you want me to,” he said, “you need only say the word.”

Crowley peeked at him from under her forearm. He looked ridiculously, endearingly earnest with his disheveled hair and wide blue eyes. His shirt collar was still crooked. She rolled her eyes.

“That’s not what I meant, angel,” she said, “You’re smart enough to know that. I mean. You. You’re _my—_I feel the same. So please don’t stop now.”

“As you wish,” he said, and shifted down the bed before guiding her legs apart.

His lips were hot when they touched her inner thigh, and Crowley gasped. He pressed soft kisses up her leg, making her squirm as he grasped her hips to give himself better access. He glanced up at her through his lashes.

“Still all right, there?”

His breath was hot and moist against the thin fabric of her pants, and Crowley sputtered.

“Yes—fuck—Aziraphale—!”

The angel laughed, and pressed a warm kiss right against her through the cloth.

“Shit,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale hummed delightedly. He seemed to have thrown his doubts away, for in the next moment he was eagerly pressing his tongue against her through her undergarments, and Crowley gasped.

He mouthed at her, alternating kisses with tantalizing darts of his tongue until she was clutching desperately at the bed sheets, and she tugged desperately at his rumpled collar.

“Get—angel—get up here. Let me kiss you.”

Aziraphale hummed again, his breath a warm puff against her skin, and she felt the vibration coil up into her stomach.

“Angel!” she gasped, twitching at the probing of his tongue, and then she yanked him up to meet her. Her lips slammed into his.

“When did you get so good at this?” she demanded against his lips, and Aziraphale chuckled. He smoothed a hand along her inner thigh.

“I don’t remember,” he murmured, his breath mingling with hers, “does it matter?”

His thumb had found the waistband of her pants, tugging them down.

“Guess not,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale kissed her again, lips soft and his free hand ghosting down her side. Crowley shuddered.

“Angel, let me—you—let me make this equal—here—”

Crowley slid her hand between Aziraphale’s legs, but Aziraphale caught her wrist; bringing it to his lips, he pressed a kiss to the palm of her hand.

“No, my dear,” he murmured against her skin, “Let _me._ I want to make _you_ feel good, right now. There’s no need for that. We can try it at a later date.”

Crowley blinked up at him.

“What d’you mean?” she said, “Don’t you want me to…?”

“No, dear,” said Aziraphale, stroking a hand through her hair. His other palm was hot where it rested against her slit, her pants pushed down around her thighs.

“While I _do_ sometimes enjoy the physical pleasures of my corporation,” he continued, “it isn’t by any means necessary_._ And what I want right now,” he said, leaning close enough for Crowley to feel his breath across her throat, “is to pleasure _you.”_

Crowley _choked_ as his fingers slipped between her folds.

“If you’re sure,” she gasped.

“Oh, I am.”

The angel had a smirk about his lips, and Crowley groaned at the sight of it, surging forward to kiss the expression off. He slid one finger into her as their mouths met, and she moaned into him.

“Aziraphale,” she keened, and he kissed her sweetly before mouthing wetly down her jaw.

“I’ve got you, Crowley,” he said, “it’s all right. I’ve got you.”

“Fuck,” she gasped as his finger moved inside her, and her hands clutched at his shoulders. He hummed against the curve of her throat.

“That’s it,” he murmured, and slid another finger in, “That’s it, I’ve got you, dear.”

Crowley ground her hips up into his hand to the pumping of his fingers, and her nails dug red divots into the angel’s shoulder blades. She bucked as he pressed his thumb against her clit and grasped wildly at the back of his head to drag him back up again for a kiss. His teeth scraped at her lip and she panted into his mouth, hands tightening in his shirt.

She kissed the angel hungrily, breathing his air and clutching him as if he was all that tethered her to Earth. His fingers moved heatedly, pressing deliciously into her as she rocked her hips against him, and Aziraphale cupped her face in his hand and kissed her back. His lips were frantic, now, and as desperate as hers, and he murmured unintelligible things against her mouth as she caught his lips again and again.

“Aziraphale,” she whimpered as he rolled her clit beneath his thumb, and he pressed more wordless words against her lips, his mouth moving feverishly against hers.

“Crowley,” he murmured between gasps as she writhed against him, “Crowley, Crowley, yes dear, I’m here, I’m here, I love you, dearest.”

Crowley’s breath caught in her throat as she made out his words, and she choked on a sob, both of her hands coming up to cup desperately at his face.

“You love me—?” she whispered, for she’d never heard him say it—but her eyes bore into his, and she watched a tender smile ghost across his lips.

“Of course,” he said, and then she was peppering frenzied kisses across his face, over his lips and cheeks and nose, and Aziraphale’s moving fingers spasmed before jumping electrifyingly into motion. They both had tears running down their faces, and Crowley’s fingers scraped deliriously through his hair as his own reached a profound pace. He moved inside her and against her, and her vision went white around the corners—gasping and whimpering, she shook apart beneath him. 

She sobbed against his lips as his motions slowed and gentled, and he stroked a warm hand through her hair. His kisses were fluttering things against the tear tracks on her cheeks. Her hands curled loosely against his scalp.

“Crowley,” he murmured, “My dear, my world, I’ve got you.”

And she slid her hands down his face and pulled him close against her. He pressed soft kisses to her collar bone as she wrapped her arms around him, stroking gentle fingers down his back.

“You’ve got me,” she said wonderingly, looking down at his curls and pressing a kiss against his head before she’d even thought of it. He chuckled and looked up, propping his chin against her breast. His eyes were sparkling in the lamplight.

“I love you,” he said.

“Oh, you wonderful, blessed angel,” she said, “I love you too.”

* * *

[1] If he was being frank, it was more than just a disappointment to Aziraphale; he found the continuous use of an inaccurate map to be properly insulting. In his opinion, people really ought to have more respect for the wonder that was the Earth. So really, he was only arguing for the sake of riling Crowley up.

[2] Not that anyone could see the motion behind her sunglasses, but it was the thought that counted with this sort of thing. And besides, Aziraphale knew her well enough at this point to be able to pinpoint her reaction to almost anything without actually looking.

[3] Spending the evening at Aziraphale’s was practically routine for them by now, and he only continued asking out of habit. Really, when she thought about it, Crowley seemed to spend more time in the bookshop than her own flat these days.

**Author's Note:**

> Can I get a wahoo?  
...hehe. I hope this was enjoyed! Can you tell that my usual thing is fluff?


End file.
